


rain

by soapyconnor



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Character Death, Gutting, Knives, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 06:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13698495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soapyconnor/pseuds/soapyconnor
Summary: jack finds the people who murdered his wife and son.





	rain

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @heggsys  
> this isn't beta'd

            Jack stood outside a bar, hanging out beneath the overhanging balcony, with a cigarette between his index and middle finger. He exhaled sharply, the smoke slowly exiting his mouth and nostrils before billowing upwards. He felt sick gross, and incredibly nauseous, but he could care less right now.

            He closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall. It was incredibly cold outside, and the wind was easily piercing his flannel shirt. He didn’t really care. He had too much shit on his plate at the moment . . .

            He glanced inside, and he saw the bartender watching him. Jack wanted to flash him a smile, to nonverbally tell him to fuck off, but he was mentally and physically defeated. Nothing was more embarrassing then having to be cut off by the bartender because you’ve drank too much. Jack only had two drinks, and he was nowhere near drunk, but yet he had been cut off.

            It was fucking bullshit, and it was why he hated this small fucking town. Just because they knew about everything that happened in his life, didn’t mean they had any reason to intervene in it.

            If he wanted to get fucking wasted and destroy his own liver so he could join his wife and son, then that was his own fucking decision. They had no reason to get involved.

            Fuckers.

            Jack’s head snapped up as two people approached, and his eyes darted to the left. Two men approached, and they were both wearing ragged clothing. They were arguing in Spanish, and both twitched angrily. Jack’s eyes followed them, his body tensing. He put his cigarette to his lips, and took another drag.

            The two men stopped in front of him, arguing some more. Jack knew what they were saying, but he didn’t really care. Not until they started speaking to him.

            “Danos tu billetera,” one of the men said. The one that spoke was shorter and unintimidating. He was lot grittier as well.

            Jack slowly narrowed his eyes, blowing the smoke in then men’s face, as the taller of the two stepped closer. He was ghostly looking. Hm . . . Shorty and Ghost. Great. They wanted his wallet. Were they fucking _joking_? “¿Qué? ¿Por qué crees que te lo daría?” he retaliated, his eyes darting from Ghost to Shorty. He never knew people were stupid enough to think that you could just demand someone’s wallet and not have anything to threaten them with.

            Ghost had his hand stuck in his coat pocket, and he jerked it forward towards him. Jack looked down at it, then burst into laughter. He was trying to scare him by pretending there was a _gun_ in his hand. “Tienes que estar jodiendo,” Jack replied with a laugh. He reached forward and grabbed Ghost’s covered hand. He sobered up quickly, and realized how serious the situation was when he felt a hard metal object in his hand.

            The air around them went still. It didn’t even seem like rain was falling. His heart stopped, and before the two could react, he quickly disarmed Ghost and turned, punching Shorty in the mouth. The gun fell out of Ghost’s pocket, and he kicked it away, stomping on his hand as Shorty jumped onto his back.

            Jack grunted, but was able to get Shorty off of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ghost rolling on the floor in pain. He noticed that he had broken the man’s hand, and he couldn’t help but feel good at that. Jack turned towards Shorty, and he took his pocket knife out, flipping the blade open, his eyes hard.

            Shorty was laying on the ground, his hands up in the air, begging for him not to do so. Jack wasn’t listening. He didn’t want to hear their excuses. Fuck, his wife had been murdered by people like them, all because they wanted money to buy snow. His wife and son were _fucking dead_ and now these stupid fucking dumbasses were trying to rob him—

            He froze, staring down hard at Shorty, then to Ghost. He had seen the surveillance tape footage, and oh God, holy fuck, these were _them_ , these were the people who had fucking killed his family. His body tensed, and began to shake. Angrily, he began to scream, “¡Fuiste tú! ¡Eres responsable de la muerte de mi esposa e hijos! ¡Ustedes fueron quienes arruinaron mi vida! ¡Malditos estúpidos de mierda, voy a matarte!” Then he was on top of Shorty, who was begging for him to stop, that he was sorry, that he was going to leave them alone.

            But Jack didn’t care. He was full of white hot rage and these fuckers needed to _die_ so they didn’t hurt anyone else like that. Quickly and fluidly, he dug his pocket knife right below Shorty’s throat, and then dug it vertically down his chest, before stopping at his groin. He reached down with his hands, grabbing the edges of the man’s stomach, and _ripping_ him open, his guts spilling out of his stomach.

            Shorty began to scream, alerting the bar to what was going on. Ghost had gotten up, and was trying to run away from them. Jack rose to his feet as the bartender and some patrons came outside to see what he had done. These were gasps, and the bartender turned towards Jack, trying to talk to him but he couldn’t hear a God damn word.

            He knew he shouldn’t go after Ghost. One murder was bad enough, but to kill someone else? God, he was going to be in jail for a long time.

            But he didn’t really care.

            He took off running after Ghost, who was trying to limp away. He heard the bartender yelling after him and even could tell that there were some drunkards running after him. But he didn’t care. Ghost needed to fucking die and that was that. Only when Ghost was dead would Jack be satisfied.

            He quickly caught up with Ghost, and he tackled him to the ground. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw the bar patrons were far behind. He turned back to Ghost, and held him down by the throat. There was so many things he wanted to say to Ghost, that he wanted to ask, but he knew he didn’t have any time. He heard police sirens, and God, he knew he was going to regret this later, but at this moment he wanted nothing more than to feel this man’s blood coat his hands.

            He repeated the same thing to Ghost that he had done to Shorty, and soon the man was gurgling and crying beneath his hands. Jack started yelling at him in Spanish, about how he was going to see him in hell and he was going to do the same thing to him again for eternity.

            As Ghost died beneath him, the police had arrived, and bar patrons were pulling him off of Ghost’s dead body. The two police officers split, one going to the first body to get reports while the other came over to arrest Jack.

            Everyone started talking, and Jack couldn’t understand a God damn word. He knew at one point they asked him if he could speak English, and he responded simply with, “Fuck off.”

            The police officer stuffed him in the back of his car, while ambulances were called and other officers. He leaned back in the seat, covered in blood, and his hands were crusted in it. It was uncomfortable to sit there with his hands cuffed behind his back, but for the first time since his wife and son’s death, he felt peaceful.

 

 

            Jack sat in a cell in the police station, still covered in blood. It hadn’t taken them that long to process him, and they gave him an opportunity for a phone call, but he rejected it. Who was he going to call? His family? They were all fucking dead. His uncle was still alive, but he wasn’t going to talk to that fucker ever again.

He could call a lawyer, but he wasn’t going to even bother calling a lawyer. A lawyer wouldn’t help him in anyway. He was going to be thrown in prison for the rest of his life. There was no point in wasting money and fighting it.

            Besides, his wife and son have been avenged. That’s all that really mattered, wasn’t it?

            He clasped his hands together, and kept his eyes facing forward. There was a complete and utter sense of calm over him, and he never thought he would ever feel this again. He could die right now and he would be okay with it.

            He closed his eyes momentarily, before they shot open as he heard the door open. “Daniels!” the police chief shouted. “You have a visitor.”

            The corner of Jack’s blood-stained mouth twitched. A visitor? Who the fuck would want to come and visit him? Before he could ask, his own question was answered for him, “Apparently, he’s your lawyer.”

            Jack frowned, and stood up, before briskly walking to the cell bars. He looked through the bars, and saw the police chief standing next to an older man. The older man smiled. “Yes, I’m his lawyer. He didn’t call me, but we had a meeting arranged and he didn’t show up so I got worried. He’s going to need me, isn’t that right?” the older man said, and Jack went to open his mouth, but the older man shot him a look, causing him to slowly close his jaw. The older man turned to the chief. “We’re allowed to have time together, are we not?”

            The chief seemed displeased, but he sighed. “Go ahead,” he said, before he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

            Jack remained standing by the cell bars, and his eyes followed the older man as he slowly walked forward. The older man looked around, then looked to him. “You’ve gotten yourself in a predicament, haven’t you?” the man asked.

            “I have,” Jack replied quickly, before saying, “Who the hell are you?”

            “I can’t really tell you, but I’m here to help you.”

            Jack raised an eyebrow, before his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? You apart of the mafia or something?”

            The older man went quiet, then let out a soft chuckle. “Your mind really does wander, doesn’t it?” he said. Before Jack could interrupt, he continued with, “Tell me, Jack, did it feel good to rip them open?”

            Jack’s head jerked back, and he moved away from the bars. Not only did the question shock him, but the fact he knew his name . . . Fucking hell. Who was this guy? “What the hell do you mean?” he asked, snapping a bit.

            The older man stepped forward, and inserted his arms through the bars. “Did it feel good? To kill them and know you were getting people off of the streets who you knew could cause harm to other people?” he asked, his face growing closer to the bars. “Come on, Jack. I know you feel good. That they’re gone and they can’t kill anyone else.”

            Jack thought about it for a moment. He wanted to tell him no, that it was fucking crazy to be okay with that, but he slowly bit down on his lip, and nodded. “Yes. I’m glad to know that they won’t rob anyone or kill them. They shouldn’t have done that.”

            The older man chuckled. “You’re right, they shouldn’t . . .” he glanced around. “It’s going to get real lonely—”

            “Spit it out, what the hell do you want?!” Jack snapped, getting fed up with this man fucking with him. His shoulders slouched, and he looked down at his blood crusted hands. “What do you want?” he whispered.

            The older man looked surprised, and then he sighed. “Look, mate. I know you don’t want to be stuck in here,” he said, motioning around him, “and that you want to do more with your life than being in here forever. I know you want to help people. Am I wrong?”

            Jack was quiet for a long time, then he slowly nodded. “Yes. Yes, you’re right, I don’t want to be stuck in here. But what the fuck are you gonna do? Tell them to let me go? ‘Cause I’m gonna be stuck in prison. There’s no getting out of here for me.”

            “Yes, there is,” the older man replied, a soft smile on his lips. Jack frowned, and went to ask what he meant, before there was a flash of blue and a loud cracking sound. Jack’s eyes widened in surprise, and his jaw gaped as he saw a giant hole cut into the metal bars. The older man had a lasso in his hands, and it was fucking _electrified_.

            “Who—” Jack went to ask, when the older man interrupted.

            “My name is Brandy, and I’m from Statesman,” the man—Brandy—said, as he held his hand out. “Come with me, we don’t have much time. I’ll explain everything later, I promise.”

            Jack never broke the law. He just . . . wasn’t that type of person. Of course, what happened with the two cokeheads was a different circumstance . . . But now?

            He stood up, and ran after Brandy, not once looking back.


End file.
